


Eclipse these memories

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Friends to lovers to friends again, M/M, Past sexual relationship, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They do not speak of what has happened, they do not act like anything has changed, but things are not as they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eclipse these memories

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [To you, my regrets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708249) by [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss). 



> 0\. For the prompt 'Turgon/Finrod: "Surely you and I are beyond speaking when words are clearly not enough."'  
> 1\. A grand opportunity to write a sad sequel to _To you, my regrets._

They do not speak of That Night, and for the most part, all is as it ever is.

They sit on the council with their grandfather, as ever, and shoot each other patient, amused looks when Curufinwë clears his throat and stands, a scroll in his hands, to present on the latest area in which the Noldor are unpardonably behind and how to remedy this.

As ever.

They go riding together, as they always have, and Turukáno laughs to see the leaves that catch in Findaráto’s fine hair – “I think they suit you better than your usual jewels, cousin, far more organic. Do you aspire to Tyelkormo’s aesthetic?” “Oh, hush,” says Findaráto, trying to unsnarl a twig from his braid. Turukáno smiles and ducks his head, and tries not to remember that golden hair loose and wild falling down Findaráto’s back, Turukáno’s hands tight on his hips as Findaráto’s thighs clenched hard around his waist, how that hair shone in the silver light; the grass and leaves caught in its tangles come morning, when Turukáno woke with his face hidden against the back of Findaráto’s neck…

Turukano is good at not speaking of That Night, but he is bad at not thinking of it.

Findaráto does not touch Turukáno anymore, if he can help it. The jolt of electricity between them is too obvious, too powerful, and too cruel a reminder of what cannot – what will not – happen again. And so Findaráto avoids brushing Turukáno’s long fingers when stealing his quill to take notes during council, avoids clapping a causal hand to his cousin’s broad shoulders, avoids, most of all, the affectionate, warm hugs they used to exchange on meeting.

Findaráto is good at pretending it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments, their eyes meet, and the silence hangs heavier and thicker between them than any words could, as powerful as touch, and Turukáno can see how Findaráto’s lips part around the heartbeat closing his throat, and Findaráto can see how Turukáno’s eyes linger on him, seeing him dressed in nothing but midnight, rather than their heavy robes, as if his cousin sees the past as clearly as Findaráto can see their future.

_We will never be; he will love another; you will be parted._

Words are not enough, in these moments; words would be too much.

But the silence is a thousand times more painful.


End file.
